Zach Wilhide

Apples and Clouds

by Zachary Wilhide

Midway through the alleyway, Derek’s thoughts and emotions smashed together. He was looking up at a cheese-faced moon smiling shadows on the licorice-black fire escapes, remembering the night his mom went away.

Enrique had told him to stay away from the stove, but Enrique was at the gym and his mom had just closed the bedroom door so she could smoke her medicine. Derek wanted his mom to feel better—she was sick a lot—and soup needed to be hot. He’d clicked on the gas burner and the hot blue flame surprised him before he could even get the bowl. It surprised the towels lying on the stove too. Soon, the flame had spread all over the kitchen. Derek cried out for his mother, but his cries were choked away by the smoke. Just as Derek’s world was fading to darkness, a man in a banana yellow suit with an elephant’s trunk came and carried him down a ladder.

“What’re you doing, D?” Enrique bumped Derek’s shoulder. “Calm down, hermanito. Deep breaths. We can’t have you losing it tonight.”

“I’m fine. . . ,” he unclenched his fists as the fire vanished, and the yellow elephant left. “. . . sh-shit together.”

“We don’t have that kind of time,” Rock said, a mean smile accompanying his words. He was busy jimmying the lock on the pharmacy’s back door. The door was dirty and greasy, Derek thought. A click echoed in the empty alleyway. “We’re in.”

The place was a dark labyrinth lined with shelves full of drugs. Wedged in between Rock and Enrique, Derek was pushed along, reading the confused alphabet of drug names printed on the boxes. After a few twists and turns, Rock stopped. “Found it.”

He shined his phone light on red and white boxes marked with the word “pseudoephedrine.” The boxes looked so perfect, Derek thought: Apple red and cloud white. Rock reached for one of the boxes and smudged one of the corners with grease from the alley door. Derek started to sway back and forth, raised a fist to jostle the emotions in his head. Enrique tried to calm him down. Rubbing his back, he spoke in a steady tone. “Take a deep breath. We’re almost done. Throw a few handfuls in a bag and we’re out. Then you can watch TV and color while Rock and I cook that special medicine.”

“The one you’re going to give to the sick people?”

Derek smiled. “Like mom?”

“Si,” Enrique’s voice caught in his throat. “That’s the one.”

Rock shoved Enrique aside. “Why’d we even bring him along?” His whisper was urgent, tinged with menace. “He’s fucking autisti—.”

Enrique’s right hand shot out faster than Rock could react in the dim light of the stockroom. It was tight and semi-professional, and caught Rock just above his ear.

“Never call him that. He’s here because I ain’t leaving him alone . . . I’m all he’s got. And my contacts are what you need. So . . . you want my help . . . you tolerate Derek.”

Rock’s eyes challenged Enrique. Enrique’s hand clamped down on Rock’s shoulder, grinding his thumb into his front deltoid to prove his point. Rock’s eyes watered. A low grumble served as his response.

Bags filled with boxes, they filed out of the stockroom.

Outside, bright lights and angry shouts greeted them. The cold muzzle of a gun was pressed just below Derek’s ear. Rough hands tore him away from his brother. Sights and sounds overwhelmed.

Enrique was being held down by several blue uniforms. Derek’s name was on his lips as he fell to the ground. His body jiggled from the swift kicks of the officers. Rock made a move toward his waistband. Loud shouts and loud bangs hit Derek’s ears. Red and white boxes flew up in the air as Rock slumped to the ground. Derek wrestled against the blue hands. Muffled Taser threats filled his ears. He watched the boxes spin in the red-blue lights of the police cars. He screamed.

The jolt of electricity contorted his limbs; made his chest hurt. Derek screamed again. Apples and clouds were falling from the sky, and no one was trying to catch them.

###

Crossroads

Zachary Wilhide

"You don't look good," I said to Green Johnny as we pulled into a town parking lot a few minutes past last call. Greenie was curled in the fetal position in the passenger seat, the pallor of his skin living up to his nickname. "I told you not to eat that sushi from the gas station."

He grimaced. "I was hungry. I didn't know we were going to be going all the way out to bumfuck-backwoods-middle-of-nowhere."

"I get it," I said, turning off the van's engine. "I'm going to need you to pull yourself together, though; we're late enough as it is."

I looked across the street from the parking lot at the bright marquee for "The Crossroads Blues Bar." There were still some people coming out of the place, the bar door exhaling smoke every time someone left, and there were still a few cars left in the parking lot. We waited until the door stopped breathing and the lot thinned out before we walked over to the bar.

Greenie was having problems standing upright. He was right. We were far from home. The Boss normally keeps us close, but debts are debts. Distance doesn't change how much a person owes.

We're debt collectors. They call me Priest because I settle disputes with an antediluvian-Old Testament sensibility. Green Johnny is as temperamental as a flash flood. The Boss sends us out when his books are overflowing with red. We make sure things stay below the levee line.

Inside the bar, murals of blues legends covered the walls, painted in cool hues of green, blue, and purple. The images converged with a smiling picture of Robert Johnson centered above the stage. A lone musician played beneath him, smoke floating around him in an ethereal mist like an offering. The musician looked up as we got closer, a brief look of concern passing over his face like a dark cloud across a clear, southern sky.

"You sound great, you going to be the next Robert Johnson?" I said.

He smirked to try and mask his nerves. His words came out like loose gravel. "Why.. .because I'm sitting here at the Crossroads?"

I smiled. "Yeah. Hope you haven't made any deals with the devil."

Greenie swayed next to me. "Who's Robert Johnson?"

I pointed to the picture above the stage. "He was the originator of the Mississippi Blues. Story goes that one night he walked out to a crossroads and made a deal with the devil: his soul for the blues. Some say he gave up a lot, some say it was worth it. What do you think, Leroy?"

The musician winced when I said his name, cleared his throat and adjusted himself on his stool. The guitar was still on his lap, a thin wooden shield. "I think the devil's always near, just gotta make sure you stay a few steps ahead of him."

Greenie belched and swayed some more. I put my hand on his shoulder to steady him. "Hey Leroy, speaking of devils, my partner here's eaten some bad fish, he needs to use your bathroom."

"Sorry, fellas, I'm closing down for the night."

"He's going to do it here or there." I shrugged. "It's your choice."

"Fine, fine." He gestured to his right just past the bar. Greenie held his mouth and limped toward the bathroom.

Once we were alone, the bluesman removed the guitar from his lap and placed it in the open guitar case next to him the way a father places a baby in a crib. "You know, I honestly thought Mr. - had forgotten about me being all the way out here."

"The Boss doesn't forget, no matter how far you decide to run. He was letting geography buy you some time; think of it as a favor."

"Ok, so, what do I owe you?" He said, standing up and clasping his hands together in mock supplication.

"$25,000. That's the principle plus the vig."

The bluesman whistled. "Jesus... I only borrowed $5,000. You sure he's doing me a favor?"

I pulled up my shirt to show the handle of my Bowie. "I didn't start the conversation with this; so, yes, he's doing you a favor."

"Ok.. .ok." Leroy waved his hands in surrender. I'll give you what I have. I don't have the full amount, but I can give you something. Will that work?"

I relaxed my grip on the Bowie handle. "That'll depend on the amount of the 'something.'"

He started heading toward the narrow hallway next to the bar. "I have the money back in a safe in my office."

The hallway walls were covered with concert posters of old blues legends. A framed John Lee Hooker poster hung next to the office door. I kept an eye on Leroy as he opened the door, stepped into the office, and fiddled with the combination dial on the safe. I heard a discordant noise in the bar and looked away, wondering if Greenie was alright. When I looked back, I was staring at the killing end of a .38. My hand slipped toward my knife, but Leroy backed me against the wall and I couldn't unsheathe the Bowie.

"Now, I want you to tell Mr. - that I appreciate his money and what it's allowed me to build here..." He pressed the gun barrel into my forehead. "But tell him he can shove that vig up his as—"

Leroy's eyes widened as Greenie looped the guitar string around his neck. He dropped the gun and tried to pry the string from his throat, but it was already in too deep. Greenie pulled tighter and reduced the deep baritone to a gurgling soprano. Once the noise stopped, Greenie relaxed his grip. The body slid down like mud into the Mississippi.

"Good timing," I said.

"Well, it wasn't on purpose," Greenie wiped his hands on his pants. "I absolutely destroyed that bathroom and went back out to the bar to find you guys and apologize to Leroy, but I couldn't find you, and then I tripped on the god-damn guitar case and got my toe caught in the guitar and tore a string off, and then I heard noise back here. I figured I'd at least hand him his string back as I was apologizing for that and the bathroom. Saw he had a gun on you and instinct kind of took over and," he looked down at the body, lying facedown, the blood pooling out like tributaries. "... now we're here."

I pulled my shirt back over the Bowie handle. "Yeah, damn shame.. .he really did sound like Robert Johnson."

Greenie belched and grimaced, put a hand on his stomach. "Well, I don't know about the blues, but I ain't ever eating gas station sushi again. That shit's a deal with the devil."

Zachary Wilhide is a writer and artist who lives in Virginia Beach, VA with his wife and cats. He has previously had stories published in Spelk Fiction, Close to the Bone, Yellow Mama Magazine, and Shotgun Honey, among others. His art currently resides at https://www.deviantart.com/whytedevil.